


the burden of belonging

by Newtondale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cas comes back because I refuse to accept that he won't, Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, implied suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtondale/pseuds/Newtondale
Summary: Dean doesn't know where he's going, he just drives.He meanders. Takes whatever road he wants without worrying about efficiency or speed. He watches the landscape change around him as he heads east, towards the sea. Sometimes he listens to music, and sometimes he doesn’t. Most of the time he just thinks, the way he has always thought best; with an open road ahead and horror close behind.Cas always comes back to him. Cas has always come back. Whether it takes minutes, or weeks, or months - Cas comes back to him.But Cas hasn’t come back. How much longer is supposed to wait? Minutes? Months? How long is he supposed to live like this, like there’s nothing else that matters except the space beside him where Cas should be?So he just drives.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 233





	the burden of belonging

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [sharkfish](https://sharkfish.tumblr.com) for once again breaking their "no canon fic" rule to read through this for me. I wish I could promise this will be the last time, but I can't.

On the first day, they just drive. The road stretching out before them, the same as always - but _no_. It was different now. They were _free_.

Freedom, as it turns out, begins a lot like their lives before.

It begins with the miles vanishing under the wheels of the Impala, with open roads, with clear skies and the sun beating down. It begins with music played too loud, or not loud enough, and laughing just because they were together. With a stop for burgers at a run-down diner. With bickering giving way to the companionable sort of silence. With beers cracked on the hood of the car as the sun set and the stars came out.

It begins, and that should be the hardest part. But it’s not.

—

They go back to the bunker, because of course they do. Dean has nowhere else, and Sam - well. Sam does have somewhere else if he wants, but he’s scared.

It almost sounds stupid, that someone who not two days ago faced Lucifer and Michael and God himself would be afraid of something so small. But Dean gets it. Lucifer and Michael and God - that’s nothing. They’ve faced shit like that a dozen times over. Dean doubts there’s a monster or an apocalypse that could scare either of them, now, but the future - a real, _normal_ future? That scares the shit outta him, for sure, and he knows Sam feels the same.

It’s almost painful to watch. Sam is so _close_. Eileen would take him in without a second thought, they both know that. He’s so close to the future he’s always wanted, the life they’ve both dreamed about. He’s so close, and yet it’s that final step that stalls him. That last act of vulnerability.

But Dean’s not an idiot. He knows there’s more to it than that. Because he knows how this goes.

He knows Sam is also still here because of him.

And isn’t that how it’s always been? They stick with each other through it all. They look after each other, through it all. They sacrifice everything else - happiness and love and _normal_ \- for each other.

And, okay, he’s not okay with that last one any more. He wants Sam to be happy. He wants to be happy, too, and though he knows now that the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive, he also knows that this time they might be.

He wants Sam to be happy. And he knows that means Sam will leave. And he’s okay with that, he really is, but just - just not yet.

For now, he needs Sam here. And it’s selfish, and he hates himself for it, but he lets it be anyway.

—

As it turns out, neither of them really know how to live a normal life. It’s hardly surprising, because they’ve never really had the chance, but Dean thought between the two of them they’d dreamed about it enough to have at least _something_ figured out.

Either they’re bad at it, or normal life is just really, really boring.

They watch TV. They go for drives. They read, and they clean, and they walk. Not always together - in fact most often apart - but nearby. And it’s boring, but Dean doesn’t know what else to do. It’s boring, but he’s not ready for anything else. He’s not ready to think about -

—

It’s been a week. In one way the days have flown by, but in another they’ve dragged on endlessly. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to, because there’s only him and Sam left and they both know how it feels.

It’s been a week, and Sam pops his head into Dean’s room, basket of dirty clothes in one arm.

“I was just putting some laundry in, if you wanted me to…”

He nods towards the chair where Dean’s jacket hangs, still bloody. Dean looks at it, looks at the handprint scorched on the fabric when it used to be - _should be_ \- scorched on him. He thinks of how selfish Cas is, for claiming him once again without asking for permission, and then leaving him. Again. He thinks that, despite it all, that claim is the best gift Cas ever gave him, and that not even giving him a chance to claim him back is the worst. He thinks about how that was the last place Cas touched him. Might be the last place Cas ever touched him.

He thinks about the burden of belonging to someone who is no longer there. To someone who might never be coming back.

“No,” he says eventually. His voice cracks and he has to fight the urge to close his eyes. “No, I…”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, and it is. It really is.

—

Sam’s phone calls to Eileen get longer and longer. Dean knows what it means, but he’s not ready to believe it.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens, he knows it, and Dean is happy for him, and sad for himself, and - if he’s quite honest, feelings have never been his strong suit, but he thinks even the most boring, well-adjusted person on the planet would be struggling with what he’s going through.

So he tries not to stress about it. There’s sadness and grief, and there’s happiness and hope, there’s fear and excitement and insecurity and -

Whatever he’s feeling, he lets himself feel it. Doesn’t burden Sam with it, at least not with the uglier side of it. That he deals with alone, in his room, where it won’t make Sam drop the smile on his face or hang up the phone or _worry_.

Dean is happy for him. That’s the side of it he shows. That’s the side of it Sam needs to see.

—

After 16 days, Sam appears in Dean’s doorway with a duffle bag in his hand and a guilty look on his face, and Dean smiles.

“Took you long enough.”

“I can stay, if you ne-“

“No, Sam,” Dean hardly recognises his own voice. It’s raw and it’s broken, but it’s okay. “This is a good thing.”

Sam smiles. A few years back, and Dean might’ve pretended not to see the tears in his eyes. Now, he’s not even tempted to pretend there aren’t tears in his eyes, too. Of course there are, and it’s okay.

“Text me when you get there,” he says, instead of ‘goodbye.’

“Yeah, I will,” Sam says, instead of ‘goodbye.’

They hug for longer than Dean thinks they ever have. At first he holds on tight, afraid of letting go, and Sam holds on the same. It’ll be the last for a while, but it won’t be the last. It won’t be the last. It won’t be -

In the end, Dean lets go. It’s been a long time coming, and it hurts, but it’s okay. It’s a good thing. And it hurts, but it’s okay.

In the end, they let go.

—

The bunker is quiet. It’s always been quiet, out of the way and buried underground, but now it’s _quiet_.

Dean’s always kind of hated being here alone. There’s too much space for one person, too many rooms that could never be filled by just him. And it’s quiet, no one cooking in the kitchen or typing in the library, no desperate planning in the war room or gunshots from the range.

He’s always kind of hated being here alone, and that was with the knowledge that someone would be coming home soon. Now, there’s no one coming home. There’s no one out on a hunt, or at the store, or driving across the country just to be here. It’s just him.

It was never supposed to be just him.

This was supposed to be the rest of their lives. Their _freedom_. And here he is, in a bunker underground the same as he has been for years, only now he’s on his own. No family, no friends, and no Cas.

And he hates it.

In the end, Dean does what he always does; he deals with it, until he can’t. He copes with it, until he doesn’t. He stays, until he leaves.

—

He packs a small bag and climbs into the Impala, and it should feel like every time he’s left for a hunt over the past seven years but it doesn’t. This isn’t goodbye, he’s certain of that, but there’s no saying when he’ll be back. How could there be, when he’s not even sure where he’s going, not even sure what he’s looking for or if he’ll ever find it.

So he doesn’t say goodbye.

(And that’s just the thing, isn’t it. He never says goodbye.)

—

At first he thinks he’s driving to Sam.

It’s easy to let himself think so. He follows the roads Sam no doubt took just days before, northeast out of Lebanon and straight through Omaha, and that feels like following Sam. And isn’t that just what he’s always done; follow Sam, through it all, run to Sam, run from anything else that tried to stop him and end up by his brother’s side. It’s all he’s ever known.

But he drives straight through Des Moines in the dead of night, ignoring only the slightest temptation to stop, and keeps driving.

He keeps driving. Drives through the night like he has so many times, only this time with an empty seat beside him. Not empty temporarily, just _empty_. Just like all those years ago, with Sam far away at Stanford and no one else to call.

Just him, and the road, and a dozen other lonely people driving alone in the dark.

He pulls over just before sunrise in a small town outside of Davenport. It’s not that he’s tired, exactly, just that he can’t go on. Can’t cross the state line into Illinois. Not now, when the darkness is just beginning to fracture with the dawn. Not now, when the weight of those miles seems so great, when he can’t quite bring himself to acknowledge the magnitude of so short a drive.

He watches the sunrise from the driver's seat of his car, like he has so many times. Halfway between his brother and an abandoned barn, with the sun breaking through the clouds and shattering against the windshield.

He thinks, not for the first time, that nowhere has ever felt as holy as the driver's seat of his car.

So he prays.

—

He sleeps for a few hours, not because he’s tired, exactly, just that he can’t go on. He sleeps for a few hours, until the sun has come up and the road is just a road again, and then he crosses into Illinois.

He drives more north than is strictly necessary, taking the 88 through the centre of Chicago. He tells himself that it’s Lake Michigan drawing him in despite the heavy traffic, but never quite manages to convince himself it’s true. Not when Pontiac is so close by, when the temptation is still so great but the terror greater still. He pushes it from his mind, or tries to, willing himself to focus on the road ahead, and the lake, and nothing else.

But when he first catches sight of the water, he knows it’s been for nothing. All he can think about is open arms and fearless steps and a trench coat floating to the shore. It’s stupid, with the _actual_ lake where he lost Cas so close to the bunker where he’s lived all these years, but now’s not the time for him to start pretending he understands what goes on in his head.

It hurts, but he doesn’t change his course. He drives along the edge of the lake for as long as he can, and thinks about Cas - and it hurts, and it hurts, and that’s okay, because it’s what he deserves.

—

With both of them behind him, Des Moines and Pontiac and everything Dean can’t stand to think about, he can breathe a little easier.

He drives slower, now, no longer drawn on by his brother and the barn and all their promises of the past. Instead, with both of them behind him, the miles seem to drag. That’s okay. He has nowhere to be and no one waiting for him when he gets there. All he has now, it seems, is time.

He takes a detour north just because he can. Skirts the edge of Lake Michigan - it hurts, and it hurts, and it’s what he deserves - until he gets bored, then peels away inland. He crosses the state until he’s at Lake Huron - and it hurts, and that’s okay - and then south to Lake Erie. He stays by the water across the state lines into New York, and by the time he reaches Lake Ontario it hurts a little less.

—

He takes it slowly. Nowhere to be and no one waiting for him when he gets there. He drives slower than perhaps he ever has before. There’s no job, no apocalypse, no one trying to kill him and no one about to die.

He meanders. Takes whatever road he wants without worrying about efficiency or speed. He watches the landscape change around him as he heads east, towards the sea. Sometimes he listens to music, and sometimes he doesn’t. Most of the time he just thinks, the way he has always thought best; with an open road ahead and horror close behind.

Part of him wishes there was a hunt. Something to be chasing, something to _do_. But the bigger part of him is grateful no calls come. He’s tired, so tired. All he wants is this; the open road ahead, and to leave the horror behind.

—

Some nights, when the pain in his neck and his back and his knees and -

Some nights, when the pain gets too much, he checks into a motel.

He’s too old to be sleeping in his car, now, and it should help him sleep easier - a shower, and a bed, and mindless TV - but it doesn’t. There’s too much space. It shouldn’t be possible for one bedroom to feel as vast and empty as the bunker, but here he is.

It’s ridiculous. He’s a grown man and a hunter, for god's sake, he’s fought angels and demons and, oh yeah, God _himself_. And yet, after everything, after all the horrors he’s seen, he can’t face an extra space in a motel room.

It doesn’t matter if he gets a single room or a twin, either. There’s too much space. Sam isn’t here to take the other twin, and Cas isn’t here to -

It’s ridiculous. He’s slept alone in a twin room before, many times. He and Sam have both hunted alone before. Many times. It shouldn’t feel any different - but of course it does. Sam isn’t coming back. Sam isn’t going to hunt with him again - hell, Dean might not even hunt again himself. But either way, Sam isn’t coming back. They’ll never get those times back, as terrible and arduous as they had been. Dean never thought he’d miss the days when he’d crawl into bed covered in dirt and shit and blood, his brother across the room just the same. He never thought he’d miss the times when their lives were on the line every second of every day. When death and despair seemed to follow them everywhere they went. But he does miss them, because he misses Sam, and when he sees an empty bed across the room all it does is remind him that Sam -

Sam isn’t coming back.

Even more ridiculous is the single room. Because in those he doesn’t even have anything to reminisce about, but it hurts him all the same. He and Cas never shared a bed. They never had the chance to - or, no, that’s just the problem, isn’t it? They always had the chance to, they just never realised it until it was too late. Until Cas was putting everything on the line (again), and Dean couldn’t keep up (again), and Cas was dead (again). And now the space beside him in bed is more condemning than ever, and Dean wants something to reminisce about but more than anything he wants to not have to reminisce. He wants Cas here, beside him in bed. He wants Cas _here_ , and Cas -

Cas might not ever come back.

Most nights, he sleeps in the car. It hurts less. The smell of leather and the contours of the seats more familiar to him than even his bed at the bunker. She was, after all, his first home.

—

He and Sam text most days. It helps, and it hurts.

Sam texts him little things, like what he had for lunch, or what he and Eileen have got up to that day, or sometimes just _I miss you_. Dean sends pictures, mostly, of diners and truck stops, highways and farmland. Pictures of the life they used to share.

He doesn’t say where he is, or where he’s going, and Sam doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say ‘I miss you’, and Sam doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say much of anything, but he doesn’t have to. Sam understands.

He knows, one day, that the texts will peter out. He knows it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Their dependence on each other, the attachment bordering on obsession, is beginning to fade away. And it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Though there’s that niggling feeling of abandonment that might never go away, Sam is still his brother. They will always be there for each other, although maybe not always _there_. And it’s not a bad thing.

(But it hurts, and it hurts, and it-)

—

There are so few places left that he hasn’t been, so many memories scattered across the country, and so few of them good. Hunts and fights, last stands and losses, an apocalypse here and a funeral pyre there. There’s barely anywhere left he can drive without facing some reminder of everything he’s done, and everything he’s lost.

He should be making more memories. New memories. Nicer ones, perhaps. That’s what Sam is doing, back in Iowa, and it’s what Sam wants him to be doing as well. But he can’t.

Cas cared about the whole world because of him, but without him around Dean doesn’t care about anything at all. The fields passing by, the forests and the trees, the rivers and the lakes and the streams. The towns. The people. Nothing means anything, any more.

—

He keeps thinking he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t. He leaves New York for Vermont, and Vermont for New Hampshire, and he keeps driving. There’s something drawing him on, though he doesn’t know what, not as concrete as Sam or the barn but inescapable all the same.

So he keeps going. He keeps driving. Let’s the road call him on even without knowing where it leads.

It’s only when he hits Maine that he realises where he’s going. Of course. Of course. Of _course_ he’d end up here.

From then he drives slower still, over hallowed ground.

—

He hasn’t been back here in 8 years. This particular stretch of wilderness. The most sacrilegious sacred place. A beautiful place, he’s sure, but damned in the eyes of God. But what does God know?

He doesn’t bother looking for the exact spot. It would be pointless. It’s been 8 years since he’s been here, but time can’t erase a memory that was barely there to begin with. It’s been 8 years since purgatory spat him out in these woods in the middle of the night, and he barely remembers it at all. It blurs in with the whole year - hunger and exhaustion and brutality and fear - but for one difference. On top of it all, it was a night of yet another loss.

He drives until he finds a place to park, and then he walks until it’s as quiet as he can stand. It’s beautiful out here, there’s no denying that, but Dean hardly cares. He walks, because there’s nothing else to do, and he thinks, because he can’t help himself.

More than anything he wonders how far he is from the spot. Not that he’d ever find it, not that he’d ever look. But it’s around here somewhere, the spot that purgatory spat him out, in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. It’s around here somewhere, and the whole forest aches with loss. The loss that became synonymous with love.

It wasn’t his fault. He knows that now, though it’s still hard to let himself believe. He didn’t let Cas down. He didn’t let go. No, Cas let go. Cas left him. Cas left him. Cas left -

He wonders, idly, how many times the two of them have said ‘I love you’ without ever _saying_ ‘I love you.’ He wonders, laboriously, how many times the two of them might have said ‘I love you’ if they had more time. If they weren’t cowards.

(Castiel isn’t a coward, a part of him bites back. Castiel isn’t a coward, because he sacrificed himself for you, _again_. Cas isn’t a coward because _he said it_. He said it _and you couldn’t say it back._ )

Though his memory of the night itself is hazy at best, Dean still remembers the moment he realised Cas wasn’t with him. That everything, that whole goddamn year he spent looking for Cas, calling for Cas, searching and killing and praying for Cas, had been for nothing. The moment he realised that _belonging_ together didn’t always mean _being_ together. That it wasn’t a guarantee. That sometimes it was a burden you’re doomed to carry alone.

**_(Cas! Where are you?)_ **

“Cas,” he says, much softer than the last time he was here. A prayer of grief instead of fear. “I’m here.”

**_(Cas? Come on man, can you hear me?)_ **

“Please come back.”

**_(Answer me, Cas, please!)_ **

“Please come back to me.”

**_(Don’t do this to me.)_ **

“You could’ve had me, Cas. This whole damn time.”

**_(Cas…)_ **

“I-”

—

There’s no answer, but Dean didn’t really expect there to be. After all, he thinks, a pilgrimage isn’t about hearing anything back.

—

Dean drives out to the coast, because he can. Nowhere to be and no one waiting for him when he gets there, he drives closer to the Canadian border than he’s ever had reason to before. And then he drives as close to the sea as he can, and then he gets out and walks.

The day is clear, sunlight breaking through the trees and warming him as he walks. He remembers how it felt back then, walking along these roads after a year in the darkness. Like seeing the sun rise for the first time. How he felt alive again, for the first time in so long, and how he would’ve given that up in a heartbeat to be back in purgatory with Cas.

He makes his way to the edge of the cliff and sits as close to the edge as he dares (which is very close, as someone who has faced God and won. As someone who has lost more than he could ever stand to lose. As someone with so little left to care about.)

The ocean is loud, almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He tries to let it, but the more he tries the less it works so instead he just lets it go. Let’s himself think about Cas, and about love, and how sometimes belonging is a burden too painful for him to bear.

—

Sam calls, not long after Dean finds his way back to the car. He pulls over on a quiet coastal road, and picks up the phone.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Dean.”

It hasn’t been long at all, but at the same time it’s been so long. Dean wonders if he’ll ever get used to this, to being away from Sam in any more permanent kind of way. He closes his eyes.

“Where are you?” Sam says. It’s not _where are you, because I need you_. It’s not _where are you, because I’m coming to find you_. It’s just _where are you, because I’m wondering_. Dean wonders if he’ll ever get used to this, to the way the rest of the world communicates.

“Maine,” he says, and one word shouldn’t make him feel like he’s spilling his guts, but it does.

There’s a pause on the other end, and Dean can practically see Sam’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure it out. Evidentially, he doesn’t manage it.

“Why Maine?” he asks, delicate like Dean might spook. Which is fair, because he does.

“Why not?” It comes out more aggressive than he meant. He takes a breath, wills himself to calm down, but doesn’t trust himself to speak again.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Sam says the three words Dean was really hoping he wouldn’t say.

“Are you okay?”

No. Of course he’s not okay. Of _course_ he’s not _fucking okay_. Sam is gone and Cas is _gone_ and he’s -

“Yeah, I’m fine.” And then, because he can’t bear to dwell on himself a second longer; “How’s it at Eileen’s?”

Sam lets him change the subject, because Dean makes it easy to; Sam is always happy to talk about Eileen.

“Kinda weird, actually,” he huffs, a half-laugh that makes Dean smile. “It doesn’t feel real yet. Like I can’t quite believe this is it. I really get to stay. But it’s good, though. I’m doing good.”

“I’m glad, Sam.” And he is. All he’s ever wanted for Sam is for him to be happy. And he is. He is. He’s safe and he’s happy and he’s got the future he always dreamed about. And it hurts.

And Sam, like always, seems to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Look, Dean. I know it’s kinda far, but… You could come visit, if you like.”

Dean thinks about it. He really does. He thinks about seeing his brother again, though it hasn’t even been that long yet. He thinks about hanging out with Eileen, which he always enjoys. He thinks about talking to someone for longer than it takes to order food. About sleeping in a bed in a house with other people nearby. People he cares about. People he loves.

He thinks about Sam and Eileen and him. He thinks about _Sam and Eileen_ , and him. Alone.

He says, softer than he intended, “Not yet, Sam.”

And there must be something in his voice, because Sam just says, “Okay.”

—

Dean keeps driving, vaguely following the coast but dipping in and out of sight of the shore. He feels a little lighter, in a way. Like telling the forest and telling the ocean was close enough to telling Cas. It isn’t, not really, but it seems to have helped.

He remembers, last time he left Maine behind him, he still saw Cas. His imagination, a hallucination on the side of the road. A product of guilt and loss and -

He can’t quite decide if it would be better to see him again like that or not. To see him again, that’s all he wants. And _God_ , he _wants_. But he remembers what it felt like after. To realise Cas isn’t really there. Again. He’s not so certain he could cope with that.

Dean wonders if it’s worth it. To see him again to lose him again. He wonders if he’s strong enough for that.

(But has he ever really been strong enough? Hasn’t it destroyed him, every time he’s lost Cas? Isn’t it destroying him now? But hasn’t he survived it, every time, even when he didn’t want to?)

—

Dean doesn’t know who he is on his own. He’s never had to. Even when he was alone before, all those years ago, he had the job. Now he has nothing, just himself, and this isn’t how it was supposed to go.

All this time Dean thought he’d die bloody. That all this would end with one final, _permanent_ death. He was certain of it, though he’d hoped through it all for a happier ending. Dreamed of falling in love and settling down, and having the kind of life that other people have. But he never really believed it. No, it would end with his body going cold, that’s what he’d always thought.

But it seems things don’t work out that way.

He’d dreamed of a happy ending, and dreaded a bad one, but he doesn’t know what to do with this. This sort of in-between, mediocre ending. He supposes it’s more realistic. Life isn’t about happy endings or bad endings, not _real_ life, not the life he’s supposed to be discovering now.

But he doesn’t want a new life that starts with regret. He doesn’t want to be faced, every day, with everything he’s lost and everything he failed to have in the first place. He doesn’t want a normal life at all if it means there’s nothing he can do to fix it, if it means the dead stay dead and the regret will eat him up from the inside. He doesn’t want a normal life at all if it means _this_.

—

This time, Dean calls Sam. It’s only been a few days since their last call, but Sam picks up on the second ring anyway.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Because he left me there, too,” he says, instead of ‘hello.’ And then, because he can’t stop himself; “Because that’s where I realised I’d rather die than lose him again.”

_“What?”_

“Why Maine,” Dean says, and then because the silence is too heavy; “After purgatory.”

“Dean…” is all Sam says, softly, like Dean might break. Which is fair, although it’s far too late for that.

“I miss him, Sam.”

“I know. I know you do,” Sam sighs, in sympathy rather than annoyance. It helps, somehow, to hear the pain there that Dean is feeling. “I do, too - I know it’s not the same, but I do. I miss him too.”

And it helps, but he’s right. It’s not the same. And it hurts.

“I love him,” Dean says. It’s the first time he’s said it to someone else, and it hurts that that someone else is Sam. He thinks he hears Sam take a sharp breath, though, so at least he knows how meaningful it is. “I loved him, and I never got to tell him.”

“He knew, Dean.”

“But he still left me.”

“To save your life.”

“I don’t want him to save my life. I want him here.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t. Dean is tired, he’s so tired. He’s tired of being alone, and he’s tired of wanting, and more than anything he’s tired of not being able to fix this.

“I don’t get it. Why hasn’t Jack..? Why won’t he just...”

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“He always comes back, Sammy. I need him to come back.”

Sam sighs, sympathy rather than annoyance, because there’s nothing he can do to make this better. There’s nothing any of them can do. It’s not the kind of sigh that should make Dean feel like a burden, but it does anyway. Suddenly, it’s all too much, the phone call and the car and _everything_. Dean just wants to be done with it, with all of it.

And Sam, like always, seems to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Where are you, Dean? I could come-“

“No, Sam. I’m okay.” Dean takes a deep breath, wills the tears in his eyes to just _stay there_. “I’m sorry I called.”

“No, don’t be. _Don’t be_. I’m here for you, Dean. Even if…”

Even if there’s nothing we can do. Even if nothing can make this better. Even if he never comes back.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Look after yourself, okay?”

“Okay.”

—

Dead doesn’t mean gone. Not always. Especially not for them.

Cas always comes back to him. Cas has always come back. Whether it takes minutes, or weeks, or months - _Cas comes back to him_.

But Cas hasn’t come back. How much longer is supposed to wait? Minutes? Months? How long is he supposed to live like this, like there’s nothing else that matters except the space beside him where Cas should be?

How many more times is he going to do this? Wait for Cas to come back to him. How many more times can he take?

(One more time. Always one more time.)

—

Dean keeps driving.

He finds his way back to Chicago, eventually. This time, instead of passing through, he parks up and gets out of the car. After so long alone on the road, he expects the sheer number of people to be overwhelming - like last time he came to a city after Maine, fresh out of purgatory and so afraid of everyone that wasn’t him or Cas or Benny - but it’s not. This time, he doesn’t feel anything.

And this time, he knows what he’s looking for. It’s not a lake or a barn or a hundred miles of wilderness calling him. It’s a neon sign above a glass-fronted shop.

The place is a lot cleaner than the last place he got tattooed. Because it’s an actual studio this time, run by an actual artist. Not the back room of a bar with a skeezy bartender moonlighting with a gun he bought on eBay. Because this one matters more than even the anti-possession tattoo had.

The needle stings, just like he remembered, but it feels good. He watches the blood beading up through the skin and the ink settling in beneath. It feels good. Eventually the pain fades away and he feels numb again, but that’s okay.

The artist hardly talks to him at all, and Dean’s not inclined to break the silence himself.

When it’s finished his arm aches. Almost _burns_. Dean smiles, and watches the artist wrap the tattoo.

It’s a delicate, fragile thing, pink-white ink and just the barest suggestion of a handprint. And it’s perfect. It’s burden, and it’s belonging, and it’s _claiming back._

—

In the end, it’s not so hard to take the turning. All these years he’s avoided it, run from it, but in the end it’s just a road. It’s just another road.

—

He hasn’t been back here in 12 years. If he’s honest with himself, he’d hardly believed it would still be here, all these years later. Not when it was derelict even back then, and not when the years have been so unkind. But here it is. And here he is.

Standing there, in front of a barn without a name in a half-forgotten field, the years fall away. None of it matters, not the pain or the fear or the heartbreak.

He knows why he’s here, always knew he’d wind up here in the end, even if he knows it doesn’t make sense. Just because Cas came to him here once before, doesn’t mean he will again. But this is _it_ , this is where it all began, and Dean _needs_ -

There’s a bottle of whiskey in the car, because he made sure there would be, and then there’s a bottle of whiskey in his hand, because that’s where he needs it to be.

The doors open less gracefully for him than they did for Cas. They open less gracefully even than they had for him and Bobby, even more rusted and stiff than they had been before. But it doesn’t matter. Grace is overrated, and the doors open all the same.

This is hallowed ground. Just like in Maine, just like the reservoir in Kansas, just like a dozen other terrible spots scattered across the country. Hallowed just for him, perhaps, but holy all the same.

The whiskey burns his throat and tears burn in his eyes, and none of it matters.

—

At first, he prays to Jack. After all, that makes more sense. At least Jack is still alive.

“Please bring him back to me.”

“I know you can do it, Jack, you’ve done it before.”

“I know you miss him too.”

—

Later, he prays to Cas. That one, he’ll admit, doesn’t make much sense, but he’s drunk and no one's watching, so who cares. He has no reason to believe Cas can hear him - but then again, when has that ever stopped him?

“Cas, please.”

“Please come back.”

“I need you.”

—

Later still, he prays to them both. That makes the least sense of all, but by then he’s even more drunk and doesn’t care at all. They’re not listening, anyway. And when will that ever stop him?

“Jack, bring him back to me.”

“I’m here, Cas.”

“He only made that deal to save _you_ , you _selfish son of a-_ “

“Cas, please.”

“Jack, _please!_ ”

“Cas, come back to me. Come _home. Come_ -”

“ _Jack._ ”

“I can’t do this without you. I don’t _want_ to-”

“I don’t know how to do this without him. I don’t want to-”

“I love you too.”

—

Dean must sleep at some point, because he wakes to sunlight breaking through the rusted holes in corrugated metal and water dripping on his face. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and when he does he wishes it had taken longer.

He’s still alone.

Castiel didn’t come. And he isn’t coming.

Dean waits a few hours more anyway. And then a little longer. And then a little longer.

The sun is high in the sky when he finally crawls back to the Impala. She’s warm from sitting so long in the sun, but he’s so cold that it doesn’t even matter.

He drives away from the barn, just as tired and lost and confused as the last time, only this time he’s alone.

—

And that’s the burden of belonging, he thinks. Once you find where you belong, it’s just that bit harder to be anywhere else. When you find the person you belong with, nothing makes sense without them. And he’s so much better at losing things than he is at belonging, and a person is so much easier to lose than a place.

—

It’s time to go home.

Dean is tired, and he wants to go home. Even though Cas won’t be there, and even though he knows he’ll be just as lonely there as he is on the road, he’s also too tired to fight it any more. At least he can be lonely in his own bed.

As he drives past KC, there’s the slightest temptation to turn south. Lawrence calls him - always does - but there’s nothing there for him now. There hasn’t been for a very long time. Dean is tired from the days on the road, from the months and years and the decades on the road. He wants to go home, to his _real_ home.

Lawrence calls him, as it always does, but it’s never been easier to ignore. There isn’t anything there for him now. There hasn’t been for a very long time. It’s time to start letting go.

Something draws him on. He thinks at first it must be the bunker, drawing him home like it has so many times, but he’s not certain any more. Was it ever really the _bunker_ he was running to? If it was, then tonight shouldn’t feel any different. But it does. What’s there for him there any more? No family, no friends, and no Cas.

He knows the bunker may not be his home for much longer, can already feel his attachment waning, but right now it’s all he has. It’s kept him safe, all these years, and right now he needs to feel safe. No matter that it’s too big a home for just him. No matter that the halls echo with loss. No matter that there’s nothing there for him there any more. No family and no friends and no Cas.

—

The rain starts when he’s only a few miles away. It seems to skip the beginning, the first few tentative drops, and skips straight to the part where the hammering of water is deafening and Dean can hardly see through the windshield. He expects it, then, when the lighting strikes and the thunder follows. Tonight, he doesn’t try to fight the thoughts he knows will come; thoughts of a derelict barn (somehow still standing), flying sparks (literally), and Cas, and Cas, and _Cas_.

—

Something makes him hesitate as he pulls in towards the garage. No, not just hesitate - it stops him in his tracks. It’s enough to make him stop, and turn around, and drive instead to the main entrance. He’s not sure what it is, but he’s glad he listens, because there, over by the door -

There’s someone standing in the rain.

At first he thinks it must mean trouble. A stranger in the rain always means trouble. But then he gets closer and he’s not so sure. And Dean doesn’t quite believe it, but he knows that coat, and that hair, and those shoulders hunched against the rain. He knows because he’s been here a dozen times before, with his heart in his throat and his stomach churning and _hope_.

He gets out of the car before it even stops, soaked in an instant and squinting against the rain. It’s got to be him, it’s got to be him, it’s -

“Cas?”

He turns, and Dean is lost. Just like in the dungeon, just like a dozen times before, with his heart in his throat and his stomach churning and _hope_ choking back any words that might come to mind. All he can do is stand there, and stare, those blue eyes staring back and everything just a little blurry from the rain or tears or both.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean wants to go to him. He’s never wanted anything more. But he stops himself, keeps himself rooted to the spot because he can’t - not with Lucifer’s face so fresh in his mind, grinning while Dean’s heart shatters _again_. He hates that he has to ask, but he does.

“Is it really you?”

Castiel nods, and it could just be another trap, another one of their enemies back from the dead and mocking him - but it’s not. It’s not. Castiel has known him like no one else since the day he held Dean’s soul in his hands, and Dean knows _him_ like no one else, too. Knows him, inside and out, because - soul or not - Dean watched him create himself. Day by day, year by year. He watched the faltering decisions and the first feelings and he watched those feelings turn into love. He _knows_ Cas, through more than just the sight of him or the sound of his voice. His soul knows him - because Cas says he changed him, but really they changed each other, again and again and again until they got here.

Dean goes to him, and it’s the easiest thing in the world. His face finds the crook of Cas’ neck just in time, his hands find his coat, and everything else falls into place. Cas wraps his arms around him, and the years fall away. The pain and the fear and the heartbreak. There’s nothing but him, and Cas, and _him and Cas_.

“I love you,” Cas says, just like before, his lips brushing against the side of Dean’s head in what is so very nearly a kiss. Dean smiles, and holds tighter.

“I love you too,” he says for the first time, and Cas smiles, and holds him tighter.

And this right here is home, and it’s freedom, and it’s the only future he wants.

—

Behind the door to the bunker the rain is still deafening, but at least it’s dry. The two of them shiver in the stairwell, soaking and freezing as they head underground. They should shower and change into dry clothes, but all at once they stop in the war room and don’t make any effort to carry on.

They look at each other, and it’s one of those looks Dean knows so well; the ones that said everything they both needed to before either of them got the courage to say it out loud.

“How?” He asks eventually, when the silence starts to get too heavy. There’s so much more he wants to ask, so much more he wants to say, but he can’t yet find the courage. Right now, this is all he needs to know.

“Jack,” Cas says, smile like a proud father, which Dean guesses he is. He must see the look on Dean’s face, though, because he continues. “It took him a little while to figure out, is all.”

And Dean’s angry, because it wasn’t _a little while_. It was days and it was weeks and it _hurt_. But he’s tired of being angry. Tonight isn’t the night for that. So instead he just says;

“I guess I owe him an apology.”

“No, you don’t. He understands.”

“Then a thank you, at least.”

Cas smiles, and it makes Dean smile too.

So he kisses him. _Finally_. And if there’s a part of him that hates that this is the first time, it’s dwarfed by the part of him that is just happy they got here at last. Cas is with him, and he loves him, and for the first time in a long time belonging doesn’t feel like such a burden.

—

In one way the days fly by, but in another they drag on endlessly. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to. There’s only him and Cas and they both know how it feels.

They’re together again, and they’re _together_ for the first time. And nothing else matters.

—

The bunker begins to feel like a home again. It begins to feel _alive_ again. Though there are only two of them, and though they only use one of the many bedrooms, the space that a few weeks ago was impossibly big instead becomes just a little too big. It’s not perfect, but it’s better, and Dean is too happy to care anyway.

The bunker feels like a home again, but it’s not perfect. It doesn’t feel like a home he wants to spend forever in. Though he has so many memories here, and many of them happy, he thinks maybe it’s time he started making new memories. He thinks maybe it’s time he and Cas started making new memories together, somewhere else.

The bunker feels like a home again, but not a home to spend forever in. And that hurts, but it’s okay.

It’s about time he moved on.

—

They end up in the Impala, bags packed and the garage door opening before them. This isn’t a goodbye, Dean is certain of it, but there’s no saying when they’ll be back. How could there be, when they don’t even know where they’re going, or what they’re looking for, or what they’ll find.

“We should go and see Sam,” Dean says, while they’re still sitting there wondering where they’ll go. “Tell him you’re back.”

Dean feels guilty he hasn’t called, but at the same time how could he? It’s not the kind of news to give over the phone. And they’ve been busy, making up for lost time. Sam will understand.

“I’d like that,” Cas says. “Where will we go after that?”

Dean takes his hand. And it’s home, and it’s freedom, and it’s the only future he wants. It’s the kind of belonging that could never feel like a burden.

“Anywhere we want.”

—

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me for any inaccuracies, but I don't watch the show any more and keep up to date through osmosis on tumblr. I'm doing the best I can with the information I have. 
> 
> Also I usually quote the poem that I got the title from in the end notes. But, okay, this time I got the title from a line from [one of my other fics.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524233) Yes, I understand that's extremely arrogant, but I simply had more to say on the matter.


End file.
